Perfectly calm himself, Albee noted with some amusement the strain in the other's tone. He had expected the question—a natural one. It was natural the fellow should wish to be assured that the favor he was about to do was a real one, a substantial one, something that would be remembered. He would be taking a certain chance, considering the newspaper interest and all the local resentment over the case. Reëlection might be rendered impossible. Albee thought to himself that Lydia would forgive a slight exaggeration of the bond between them if that exaggeration served to set her free.
"Well, that's rather an intimate question, Mister District Attorney," he said. "To most people I should answer that she is a lady whom I esteem and admire; but to you—in strictest confidence—I don't mind saying that I have every hope and expectation of making her my wife." And he added less solemnly, "What are you young fellows thinking of to let an old man like me get ahead of you, eh?" Bending forward he slapped the other man on the shoulder.
O'Bannon stood up as if a mighty hand had reached from the ceiling and pulled him upright. The action was all that was left of the primitive impulse to wring Albee's neck.
"There is nothing I can do to help Miss Thorne," he said. "You know enough about criminal procedure to know that. The case against her is very strong."
"Oh, very strong—in the newspapers," said the governor with another of his waves of his hand. "But you mustn't let your cases be tried in the newspapers. I always made it a rule never to let the newspapers influence me in a case."
"I have a better rule than that," said the other. "I don't let anything influence me except the facts in the case." He was still standing, and Albee now rose too.
"I see," he said, not quite so suavely as before. "You mean you go ahead your own way and don't mind making enemies."
"I sometimes like it," answered O'Bannon.
"Making them is all right." Albee looked right at him. "Taking the consequences of doing so isn't always so enjoyable. Good night."
When the sound of the governor's motor had died away O'Bannon went back to his desk. His mother had long ago gone upstairs, and the house was quiet. Disgust and anger were like a poison in his veins. So that vile, sleek old man was to have her? Love was out of the question? She did not even have the excuse of needing money! What a loathsome bargain! What a loathsome woman! To think he had allowed himself to be stirred by her beauty? He wouldn't touch her with his little finger now if she were the last woman in the world. Albee? Good God! There must be thirty-five years between them. Someone ought to stop it. She would be better in prison than giving herself to an old man like that. She was no ignorant child. She knew what she was doing. If he were the girl's brother or father he'd rather see her dead.